Doing the Work
by RussellHolmes
Summary: Therapy is hard work.  But it's worth it.
1. Chapter 1

I spend the first half of my next session waiting for the real Doctor Gyson to reappear. She's not pushing any of my buttons-not pushing at all, in fact-just asking me a series of (relatively) easy questions about my time in the Army and the early years of my NYPD career. I recognize the technique, and privately I have to admit she's extremely good at it, but I really thought we were past this.

Finally, I can't take it anymore.

"You know, whatever it is you're working your way up to here, I'd really rather you just got on with it."

It's not until I see her slight smile as she sits back that I realize she's been waiting for me to challenge her.

"All right, then. Let's talk about your partner."

That surprises me. I thought she was working her way up to some huge and terrible thing from my past. Eames requires the soft lead-in?

"You look surprised," Doctor Gyson murmurs, and I realize I've spent several seconds staring into space.

"I am. Eames... You could've just asked."

"I did ask," she says, and now her voice holds that familiar edge I'm used to hearing. "I asked, and you all but took my head off."

That's a little disingenuous, and I don't bother to hide my annoyance. "Yeah, well, you asked me whether I'm in love with her. It was an inappropriate question."

"Is that what I asked you?" she challenges.

I draw breath for a sharp retort-I know damn well what she asked me-but then my eidetic memory kicks in, and I her voice speaks in my mind.

_Do you love her?_

And I realize with a shock that she's right to challenge me. The question I answered-no, the question I so dramatically refused to answer-wasn't even the question she asked.

"Oh," I murmur, and from the look of gentle empathy she gives me, I know I must look as broadsided as I feel. "I... I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For assuming that you were baiting me."

"Is that what you thought that day? That I wanted to make you angry?"

I nod. I'm ashamed of that now, but at the time...

"Believe it or not, Bobby-" She actually smiles slightly. "-I intended that to be an easy question."

I sit back, and after a second I manage to laugh at myself a little. "It should have been. I mean, yes, of course I love her. We've been partners for a long time."

Doctor Gyson nods. "You trust her."

It's not really a question, but I answer it anyway. "Yes."

"Why?"

She probably intends that to be an easy question, too, but... "Uhm...this could...take a while."

"Take your time."

I hesitate, but only briefly. "You remember what I said about how everybody lies?"

She nods.

"Well...I guess Eames is the exception that proves the rule."

"So you trust her because she's honest with you?"

"That and...and she hasn't given up on me."

"You say that as if it puzzles you."

"It does. I mean, _I_ gave up on me. When they made her fire me..." I've talked to Doctor Gyson about that already. "...she had the perfect opportunity to walk away."

"Was that what you expected her to do?"

Was it? I lower my head and force myself to go back there in my mind, to that awful night in Ross's office...no, not Ross's office, not anymore...force myself to relive the moment when Alex finally admitted what they'd ordered her to do. I wasn't surprised-I'd seen it coming-but it still hurt. She was trying so hard to be strong, to make it easier on me, but I knew how close she was to losing it.

"No," I hear myself whisper. "I don't know what I expected her to do, but...I knew she wouldn't abandon me."

In my peripheral vision, I can see Doctor Gyson sit forward in her chair. "Say that again."

"I knew she wouldn't abandon me," I repeat, more strongly this time, and look up.

To find Doctor Gyson studying me with an intensity that takes me aback.

"What?"

For a moment I think she isn't going to answer-she's under no obligation to, after all; she's not the one in therapy-but then she sits back and shakes her head and smiles slightly.

"You really have no idea how extraordinary that is, do you?"

If there's one thing I know about psychiatrists, it's that they don't ask rhetorical questions.

"I...guess not."

"This kind of therapy," she says slowly, and gestures between us, "it requires a great deal of trust."

"I'm beginning to understand that," I say wryly.

She smiles in acknowledgement, but then her expression grows serious again.

"There are people who can't do it. Not because they don't want to-almost everyone wants to get well-but because their capacity to trust is too badly damaged by the trauma they've endured. They've been betrayed and hurt and abandoned so many times that they can't open up enough to accomplish anything constructive with me. I have to refer them for another type of treatment."

It's not difficult to figure out what she's really saying, and I have another quick flash of memory, this time of myself shouting at her a few weeks ago.

_I'm not a good candidate for therapy!_

"But...you've continued to work with me," I say slowly, sounding as puzzled as I feel.

"Yes, because against all odds you're making tremendous progress. And I have a theory about why. It's because somehow, in the midst of everything you've been through, you've managed to find one person you feel safe putting your faith in."

"Eames."

She nods and repeats, "The relationship you have with her is extraordinary."

"She's extraordinary." I didn't really mean to say that out loud, but that doesn't make it any less true.

"Tell me about her."

"Uhm..."

"Just start with one true thing," she suggests. "What was your first impression of her?"

"That she was tiny." There I go again, speaking without thinking.

Doctor Gyson's brows rise. "Tiny?"

I remember belatedly that Doctor Gyson has never seen Eames.

"Yeah. She's, uhm, five-three and...I don't know...maybe a hundred twenty pounds with all her hardware on. I don't notice so much anymore, but that first day...yeah, that was the first thing I thought."

"And did it bother you, having this tiny woman for a partner?"

I laugh.

It's apparently not the reaction Doctor Gyson was expecting.

"Why is that funny?"

"Because it did-bother me, I mean-for an hour or so, and then I realized what a relief it was going to be, not having to go through all that macho bullshit."

"Macho bullshit?" she repeats, now sounding amused herself.

"The whole stupid routine guys go through when we get partnered up. You know, figuring out who's the alpha dog. Who's a better shot and who can bench more weight and who can take who down sparring and who's going to drive the car. It's idiotic, but we do it."

"I see. And you didn't have to go through that with Eames?"

"Eames has a very low tolerance for macho bullshit."

Now it's Doctor Gyson's turn to laugh. "Somehow I imagine that's a massive understatement."

"It is," I admit. "She's got a pretty low tolerance for bullshit, period, actually. It's one of the things I respect most about her. She's not interested in putting on a show."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She's not fake. I mean, she's got the same professional facade that all cops have-that's a survival mechanism-but once you get underneath that...what you see is what you get."

"And what is it that you see?"

"I... I don't know how to answer that." I'm not just stalling-it's the truth.

Doctor Gyson seems to realize that.

"Okay. We can come back to that," she says easily. "Tell me something else about Eames. Anything that seems important to you."

"She's brave."

"It makes you feel better, knowing she's backing you up?"

"Safer, yeah. She's not scared of much."

Doctor Gyson nods. "What else?"

"She's smart."

"As smart as you are?"

"What the hell kind of question is that? You don't know her."

Doctor Gyson holds up her hand and leans forward, into the force of my sudden anger.

"Stop," she says firmly. "What just happened?"

"I..." I force myself to take a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I got defensive."

"Why?"

"You said-" No, that's further defensiveness. "It sounded like you were questioning her intelligence."

"Has someone done that in the past-assumed she's not as smart as you are?"

For the second time in just a few minutes, my memory blindsides me with a voice from the past. Eames's voice this time, bitter with hurt.

_I get it. You're the genius. I just carry your water, right?_

_You're the genius._

_You're the genius._

"Bobby?"

I realize that I have no idea how many times Doctor Gyson has said my name. Several, I think. I drag myself out of the memory and suck in a deep breath and make myself meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I was..."

"Remembering?" she prompts gently.

"Yes." I brace myself for the inevitable question.

But Doctor Gyson rises and crosses the room to the mini-fridge behind her desk, and a returns a moment later with a bottle of water.

"Here."

I accept it gratefully and drain about half the bottle before I look up again to find her studying me.

"Better?" she murmurs.

"Yeah. That was, uhm...unexpected."

"And powerful," she says, not a question.

I nod anyway.

"Can you talk about it?"

I'm surprised to realize that yes, I probably could. But...

"I think...I think it's something I need to talk to Eames about."

Doctor Gyson studies me for another moment, then nods slowly.

"All right. I'll accept that, but only if you're actually going to talk to her."

**TBC**

**Author's Notes: **

**The memory that rises up and grabs Bobby is from the episode "Purgatory," just in case anybody wants to run to the DVR. More about that next chapter…**

**Oh, and JamiW is as awesome a beta reader as she is a writer. And I'm sure that's all I have to say about that.**


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, at nearly midnight, while Eames and I are sitting on opposite ends of my couch with several dozen crime scene photos spread out on the coffee table before us, I suddenly hear my own voice speak without my permission.

"I need to talk to you about something."

Eames appears to recognize that whatever I'm about to say has nothing to with the case. She jams her chopsticks down into her half-eaten kung pao chicken, sets the box down between stacks of photos, and sits back.

"Okay."

"It's...from when I was suspended. I know you said you didn't want to dredge up old stuff, but..."

She saves me from myself. "Something came up in your therapy?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I hate to drag you back through-"

"It's all right. There are some things from that time I'd rather not relive, but if this is important to you, then you can talk to me."

"Thank you. I, uhm... When you said..." It's hard for me to even make myself repeat it. "When you said that I was the genius and you just carried my water..."

Eames flinches.

"I know you know that isn't true," I continue, forcing myself to get it all out at once, "so why did you say it?"

From the look on her face, I'm pretty sure I've landed squarely on one of those things she'd rather not relive.

But what I told Doctor Gyson was true-Eames is brave.

She looks down, and it takes her a while to get started, but when she finally begins to speak it's a rapid, uncensored flow of words, and I know she's being completely honest.

"Because that's how I felt. I was trying so hard to help you, and you were treating me like a stranger, like I was nothing to you. I knew you were lying to me, and that day you looked at me like you wished I'd just disappear, and I thought-" She finally pauses, and her voice gets softer. "I thought you were cutting me loose. I thought you were going to tell me you didn't want me for a partner anymore."

The pain in her voice steals my breath.

And out of the dizzying maelstrom of my thoughts, a concrete image forms. I already have a mental picture of the barrier Doctor Gyson calls my_ emotional drawbridge_-a thick, heavy, wooden barricade right out of the Middle Ages-but this time my perspective has changed. I am not looking at it from inside my fortress. This time, I am hovering above it, and I can see what's on the other side.

Eames.

Bruised and bloodied and exhausted from throwing herself against the gate.

But still there.

Still knocking.

Still waiting.

I blink, and the image of the drawbridge disappears.

It is replaced by the all-too-real image of Eames sitting curled in on herself on the other end of the couch, head bowed, trembling faintly. She's bleeding hurt I can feel from five feet away, but what nearly kills me is the way she's got her arms wrapped around herself. Because I know exactly what that particular self-protective gesture says: _No one is coming to comfort me, so I'll do it myself._

And I know that if I don't move, if I don't speak, she'll put herself back together. An hour from now even I won't be able to tell anything was ever wrong.

Except that now I know better. Clearly, something is radically wrong.

I'm only peripherally aware of moving, but when Eames looks up at the touch of my hand on her shoulder, her startled eyes are right in front of mine.

_Just start with one true thing._

"I'm sorry."

Eames blinks.

"You're not a stranger, and I never wanted another partner, and there was never one single moment when I wanted you to disappear. If that's how I made you feel, then I am so sorry."

Tears well in her eyes, and I can see her fighting not to cry, just like the night she fired me. She let me hug her then. Maybe...

I risk a gentle tug at her shoulder.

"It's all right. Come here."

She makes a wet, strangled little sound-

-and falls forward into my arms.

I wrap myself around her, and she fists her hands in the front of my shirt and presses her face into my shoulder and quietly loses her battle with the tears. No hysterics. No loud, uncontrollable sobbing. Just soft, near-silent weeping and the faint tremor of her back under my hands.

I soothe her as best I can, stroking her hair and murmuring a soft litany of reassurance. But on the inside I am breaking apart.

_...like a stranger..._

_...like I was nothing to you..._

_...lying to me..._

_...you wished I'd just disappear..._

_...cutting me loose..._

A year ago I would have let this regret consume me. Or I would've done my best to drown it in a whiskey bottle. Even now, it's terrifying. I want to run away, to withdraw into my keep and slam every bolt on every gate until I am safe in the smallest room in the highest tower.

But I can't. Not now. Because I can't abandon my partner.

My partner, who has lowered her own emotional defenses sufficiently to _curl up in my arms and cry_. I don't have any way of actually knowing how long it's been since she trusted someone this much, but I have a pretty good idea.

So I stay.

And it doesn't kill me.

Eventually her death grip on my shirt relaxes, and her breathing begins to return to normal. I wait for her to pull away and withdraw into her armor. But she stays cuddled against my chest, relaxed and apparently content. It finally occurs to me that perhaps she's fallen asleep.

"Eames?" I murmur, barely audible.

She's still for a second, and then her shoulders begin to shake. For a moment I think she's crying again, but there is stifled laughter beneath the tear-roughness of her voice when she speaks.

"_Eames,_ Bobby, really?"

She's right, of course-it's ludicrous. So I laugh. Which gives her permission to laugh. Which makes me laugh harder. We end up leaning against each other in near-hysterics. It's an incredible release of tension, and it feels wonderful.

Alex recovers first.

"We're both crazy," she says matter-of-factly.

"That must just be you," I answer with all the seriousness I can muster. "I've got paperwork now that says I'm sane. Remember?"

She snorts. "Oh, yeah. Remind me to pull your file."

We grin at each other like idiots.

Then her expression relaxes into a tender smile.

"Thank you," she says softly. "You're right that I know it wasn't true, but...I still needed to hear that."

"I should've said it a long time ago."

"You've said it now. I know this wasn't easy for you, and I appreciate it."

"I'm trying," I acknowledge. "I don't want to hurt you anymore. You've forgiven me for so much, and you still have this _faith_ in me that I don't even understand..."

"Did you ever hurt me on purpose?"

"Wh-what?"

"Did you ever deliberately do something with the intention of hurting me?"

"Of course not." She knows that. Please tell me she knows that.

"Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I understand how much pressure you were under and how much pain you were in? I was there. I remember."

"That doesn't excuse the way I treated you." No matter how willing she may be to forgive me, that's still true.

"No," she acknowledges, "and I appreciate that you realize that, but you're not the only one who said things you regret. You've forgiven me for a lot, too."

"You never did anything wrong."

She gives me a disbelieving look. "Do the words _It's too late_ ring any bells?"

Oh.

"But...that was true."

"Not in the way I let you think, and I knew that when I said it." She rakes her hand through her hair. "Jesus, Bobby, I told you your wounds were _self-inflicted_. Don't be so quick to let me off the hook."

That is what I want to do, I realize. Let her off the hook. But she's right-we're both to blame. Granted, I'm pretty sure it's about a 90/10 split, but...

"You want me to be mad at you?"

"No. I just want you to let me be sorry for the things I did wrong, too. You're not allowed to corner the market on remorse."

It takes me a minute to wrap my mind around that.

"Okay. You're right. I... Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She sits back, laying her head back against the couch cushions, and closes her eyes. She looks tired. Then again, I feel like I've run a marathon, so I guess I shouldn't judge.

"You okay?" I venture after a minute or two.

Alex smiles without opening her eyes.

"I feel like I should send Doctor Gyson a check. Your therapy is doing me a hell of a lot more good than mine ever did."

I laugh, but I understand what she means. "Yeah. What you said about not getting any better by yourself...I get that now."

"Does she get it? Gyson, I mean? Because Skoda didn't seem to."

I think back over the session, about the things Doctor Gyson asked me about Eames. About Alex. God, that's going to take some getting used to.

"Yeah, I think she does."

"Good."

Alex falls silent again, and I slowly begin to return the photos to their folders and gather up the take-out boxes. Neither of us is going to get anything more done tonight.

"You planning to sleep here?" I finally ask, mostly joking.

"You planning to throw me out?"

This is new. Then again, I could say that about most of the past couple of hours.

"At least turn the right way on the couch. I'll bring you a blanket."

"Mrrmph."

By the time I return, she's sleeping the sleep of the righteous. So I drape the blanket over her and turn off the overhead light and take myself to bed.

My last waking thought is that I can't wait for Doctor Gyson to ask me how my homework went.

**End**


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